


i broke my bones, playing games with you

by kaiyak



Category: Original Work
Genre: (dark ones), (i guess? aha), (very light tho), ? - Freeform, Angels, Angst, Beautiful, Boys In Love, Dark, Disease, Drama, Fantasy, Fictional Disease, Flowers, Gore, Hanahaki AU, M/M, One-Sided Love, Pride, Pridemonth, Romance, Suffering, Supernatural - Freeform, Vomiting, Yaoi, but still theres love, hanahaki, i dont really know tbh, pridemonth2018, real, soft fluff, title from a years & years song
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-05-28 19:34:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15056255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaiyak/pseuds/kaiyak
Summary: Tyson would have never guessed he would risk his life over a simple, minimal crush.On Owen Bryant, the Owen Bryant, on top of that.But Abel was here, with his invisible cape of a superhero, and his dark, dark feathers.Ready to make the flowers stop tumbling from Tyson's mouth, and impatient to make him his.i itch all night, i itch for you.(title from real - years & years)[hanahaki!au]





	i broke my bones, playing games with you

**Author's Note:**

> hey ^^  
> here's a little work i did for pride month (cause i kinda really wanted to write something, even though it doesn't revolve around homosexuality per se, but romance between two men who should not be together, as well as suffering which comes with love)  
> hopefully you enjoy TT i kinda wrote this really fast tbh and it is my first time writing a hanahaki!au, so if i made some mistakes, sorry in advance  
> oh, and btw? i'm not a native english speaker, so, again sorreh if there are grammatical mistakes ;; (+ i didn't revise - this isn't betaed - cause it's past midnight, and i wanna eat a snack and go to sleep so i'll fix everything tomorrow)  
> anyway, enjoy! (comments are hella appreciated cause i need to know if this was okay ahah TvT) thanks for reading! <3

Tyson White was not really into parties. Nor was he interested by booze or fake paradises. Usually, on Friday nights, he would read some intriguing novel, a forgotten cup of hot chocolate sitting on his nightstand. Or he would study, acting like the perfect student model he truly was.

But there he was, at Jennifer’s house, on a plastic chair, in a certain backyard.

Circled by crazy, daring people. So many persons, yet he still remained in his own corner, a glass of water between his fingers.

The loud, thundering beats playing, along with the many yells and shouts, were giving him a headache, but he wasn’t planning on leaving. Yet.

He wasn’t a pussy.

Yes, he was more of a loner, minding his own business, but there was Owen. With chestnut hair, tanned skin, golden eyes and oceans of freckles all over his body.

Owen Bryant, the pathetic exception. 

And Tyson, the blue-haired, four-eyed guy, with burgundy-tinted irises, was head over heels for him.

And Owen? Well.

He was still around.

Around the same, annoying girls.

Girls who pestered him just because of his popularity and his good looks.

Tyson looked down, pouted, swallowed, then shivered.

Owen would never gaze at him. Owen was in this other world, far away from his own. In a dimension where women were latching on his arms, where money rained, where stars brightened the most at night, where water wasn’t transparent, but made of a pinky orange-ish hue, and where Tyson wasn’t present.

Instead, Tyson was trapped in a snow globe, frozen. Without anyone else, not even the sun, but himself (abandoned in countless centimeters of snow).

His train of thoughts stopped abruptly.

He felt them coming up, again. He stood up.

And almost tripped, back-pedaling towards the house’s entrance.

He slapped his hand on his mouth, wheezing aloud. People looked at him, concerned, getting away from him.

He rushed inside, locking himself in the bathroom, falling on the toilet seat, his fingers shaking. 

He spit a few times, sensing the roots detaching themselves from his lungs, ascending.

Tears rolled down his plump cheeks, blood splattered on the pristine white tiles.

He coughed out petals, some landing on his arms.

_Oh. They’re yellow, this time_ , he noticed.

Then, he felt the flower between his vocal chords, travelling upwards in his throat.

He coughed a bit more, then regurgitated, the sounds he himself was producing disgusting the fuck out of him.

“Too much alcohol, maybe,” he heard someone say behind the door, the music hiding their voice.

He wanted to laugh ironically at the idea.

_I wish. Unfortunately, I didn’t consume a single drink tonight_. _Yet_.

Tyson finally stared at the demon that was floating in the toilet’s waters.

_Yellow tulip_.

Great. One-sided love.

As if he wasn’t aware, already.

He got up, his legs still wavering, and approached the sink, his reflection in the mirror scaring him for a second.

He looked livid, _lifeless_. His eyes were devoured by darkness, creases showing up.

He sighed, flushed the toilet, cleaned the floor and got out, suddenly exhausted.

“Are you okay?”

Startled, Tyson got lost in Owen’s worry-filled eyes.

“Y-Yes. Too much stress, I suppose,” he stammered, face-palming himself mentally.

Owen chuckled.

_When did he come inside? Why is he here?_

“Why don’t you come with us? We’re about to start a game of beer pong in the garage.”

Tyson giggled, nervous.

“Ah, I’m not really good at beer pong, to tell you the truth,” he mumbled, a fake grin plastered on his face.

Owen didn’t answer.

Wondering, Tyson looked up, and almost got a heart attack, panic coursing in his veins.

The popular boy was brushing his digits over his lips, his eyebrows furrowed.

“W-What—”

“Did you vomit blood?” Owen questioned, the girls following him having ended their conversation at the mention of the vital liquid.

“Uh? Um, no? Why?”

_Fuck_.

“Don’t lie, Tyson. If you _did_ vomit blood, we should head to—”

“Owen,” Tyson cut him off, “I swear. I didn’t. Trust me.”

“Then, how did it get here?”

“Who is this friend of yours, Bryant?” one of his fans piped up, fluttering her eyelashes in an exaggerated way.

Tyson exhaled, relieved.

_Nice cockblock, for once_.

“I—um, here, I present to you Tyson White. He was my math tutor last year, and we’re in the same English class this semester,” Owen cleared his throat, ruffling his hair.

“Ooh, comrades?”

Shuffling on his feet, Tyson shrugged.

“Yeah, you could say so. Weren’t we going in the garage? To get this beer pong game started?”

Everyone agreed, Owen included, although reluctantly.

“Are you sure about—”

“Owen, God, don’t bring it up again. I’m telling you I’m fine, period. Let’s get drunk,” Tyson said with forced confidence, his round glasses falling on his nose.

“Alright,” the other man responded, a shy smile brightening his face.

Tyson coughed twice.

_Don’t make that face, I might die. Like, **actually** die_.

-

Tyson never knew sangria would taste this good. Or how rum was so warm, comforting.

His vision was swimming, and he was laughing, even though nothing was seemingly hilarious.

Now he could check off ‘ _being drunk_ ’ on his checklist of things normal people do.

He took possession of a flute, the drink it contained lilac-coloured.

_Wow. I never vomited lilac yet. Will I?_

In the end, he really wasn’t good at beer pong. He was the worst. So Owen ordered him to sit down, and take it slow.

Well, his advice and sweet words hadn’t really worked, considering Tyson was more than tipsy, laying on the couch, near the table.

“Drink, drink, drink!”

Alcohol was an excellent escape, he concluded. A nice, fine way to forget, and to enjoy life for a while.

Owen popped in his sight, and he regretted having thought about all those lies.

“Having a good time?” he inquired, taking a seat beside him.

“H-Hell yeah,” he hiccupped, blushing.

And then he felt it.

That burning, horrifying sensation of flowers blooming in your oesophagus.

_Shit, why does it have to happen again? It never happened twice in a row._

_I really must be near the end._

_Well, fuck._

“Tyson? You don’t seem okay...”

“I-I’m alright, I promise. I’ve n-never been this—”

_Oh my God._

He began to pant once more, his eyes watering. He bent down, his head between his knees.

“Um, Tyson—”

Owen’s voice sent a shiver down his spine, and he whined, crying.

_Why am I that pitiful? Why can’t I live the perfect romance everyone experiences?_

“What’s going on?”

People started whispering in hushed tones, and Tyson glued his hands to his ears, tired.

Something warm unexpectedly covered his shoulders.

“Here, I’ll take you home.”

The comfy fabric of the couch disappeared under him, and he danced in the atmosphere, his head spinning way too fast.

Someone took him in their arms, Tyson as light as air.

He let himself be hugged, his world crumbling down, hopelessly.

A sweet aroma of roses wafted to his nose, and he sighed, strangely appeased. He got closer to it, and hid his face in the person’s neck, his glasses crushing his eyes.

_Fuck it_.

“Dude, hold on. Who are you, for starters?”

The movements stopped, and the stranger talked calmly in a deep voice that reminded Tyson of melted, dark chocolate.

“I’m his childhood friend.”

The purple-haired male purred thoughtlessly.

When he finally opened his eyes, he saw Owen’s dumbfounded expression, standing there between girls, drinks and peer pong balls.

His jaw touching the floor.

He giggled, and sniffed the unknown man’s nape once more, both getting drunk _and_ high all at once.

Before passing out, he realized that his savior in a shining armor had black wings, feathers swirling all around him.

He snickered, and coughed a bit more, blood dripping on his chin.

-

“That—that was unnecessary,” Tyson sputtered, trying to inhale. “That attention was not d-desired, Bel.”

The other didn’t reply. He simply threaded his fingers between some violet strands of hair.

Tyson gagged.

“Sh—it, it’s coming, put me down, hurry—”

Blood, gasps, petals, repeat. As always.

How much longer would it take? Would Owen steal his soul, once and for all?

The roots took a few minutes to separate themselves. Tyson’s eyes bulged out.

_That’s not normal. That’s not normal._

Tears of frustration got accumulated on the corner of his eyes, and he coughed again and again, blood staining the wall.

“They w-won’t c-c-come out,” he breathed, punching his abdomen weakly.

“Tyson. Look at me,” the person spoke, peaceful as ever.

“ B-b-bullshit, Abel, they... They—”

Palms took possession of his jaw, and he chocked, sensing how the flower wanted to evade its cell.  

“Tyson.”

He snapped his head up, troubled. Abel dried his tears, his obsidian orbs penetrating his own.

Surprised, he felt it getting up against his insides, and bent over, his face still kept warm in Abel’s hands.

His mouth produced demonic sounds, and he closed his eyes tightly, worn out.

It tumbled down, and he sobbed.

Then breathed again, although a new pressure had been added on his lungs.

“Lily,” Abel pronounced firmly. “Red spider lily.”

_Death_.

“It’s your last warning,” he pursued, twirling the fawning flower between his digits, blood decorating it in a sober manner.

Tyson heaved, mute.

His saliva tasted like iron.

“End it.”

Abel stared at him, taken aback. His calloused hands took hold of the smaller one’s shoulders.

“Tyson, don’t talk nonsense.”

“I’m serious, Bel. I want you to make them disappear. I know you can. That’s why you’re here... Right?”

Destroyed, Tyson got lost in Abel’s eyes, begging him silently.

And Abel nodded, discovered. He sighed.

“Alright. But you’ll forget them. Your feelings. There’s no turning back,” he warned him. “You’ll feel different, too.”

“But you’ll be here. I’ll be okay,” were the last things he muttered before latching himself on the taller man, wings enclosing his frail organism.

_I’ll always be there, Ty’._

-

Abel Scott had never wished to be born as a dark angel.

Wandering around and collecting life essences wasn’t really his dream job.

It was depressing, and unavoidable.

But when Tyson’s soul called for him in a scared, terrorized voice, wanting, desperately needing help, he didn’t even hesitate.

Tyson was slowly, gradually losing it, and Abel didn’t want him to suffer even more.

He was a young adult, who was gravely sick.

Who was throwing up plants, the disease caused by non-reciprocated feelings.

At first, the human had been frightened (obviously), but now, he would never think twice about camouflaging his face in an infinite amount of ebony feathers, his nose itching.

He would laugh genuinely, then say something along the lines as:

“Are you sure you’re a bad angel?”

Then Abel would chuckle and correct him.

_Dark_ angel.

_I know I’m bad, please don’t remind me again._

Coming back on Earth, Abel took a few tools, and patted Tyson’s chest, feeling how uncommonly hard it was.

He exhaled, trembling.

_You better not fuck this up, Bel_.

I won’t.

He took the scalpel, and started cutting, dead flesh revealing pure, shining, ruby-tinted blood. He hissed, but remained serene.

Plunging his hand in Tyson’s upper body, Abel finally graced the deepest roots with his nails, and he tugged on them, carefully.

A petal fell, and he analyzed it, noticing the black spot.

He urged himself to continue his work, or he would cry with happiness.

Still, they wouldn’t bulge, entirely stuck to Tyson’s lungs, crushing them, not permitting them to have enough amount of oxygen.

Furrowing his brows, Abel let his energy spark up, his arm completely becoming black.

The roots began crumbling, one by one, at an endless pace.

But it was working. They were dying, one by one.

Reassured, Abel pushed more power, and looked at how roses and daffodils were unwrapping themselves from around the vital organs, rotting.

Successful, Abel got rid of the virus, completed the surgery, and stitched back the evil cut.

Looking at the non-living flowers that were now resting in the trash can, he snarled and took a seat on the hospital bead, Tyson’s head now positioned on his thighs.

He petted his mane, then cupped one of his cheeks in his huge palm, sending warmth to the pasty, nearly lifeless boy.

The gigantic, monstrous scar on Tyson’s chest was still bleeding a bit, even if Abel had just stitched the parts of skin together.

He compressed the wound with a towel that had been sitting on the nightstand since the beginning of the operation, let it swim in water and put it on the lesion.

Tyson squirmed in his fake sleep, and Abel huffed, impatient.

Impatient for the other’s return.

He shook his feathers, goose bumps awakening on his arms.

-

A few months ago, Tyson had forgotten how breathing felt like.

But now, he revived what amazing sensations it brought.

As relief washed over him, he giggled in a subtle way, inhaling and exhaling at diverse paces.

“Comfortable?”

“Very much so,” he stated without even thinking, taking Abel’s hand in his, pushing his skull against the fluffy pillow. “Thank you, Bel. How can I repay you?”

Abel shut his lips, shaking his head from left to right negatively.

“No worries. I don’t need repayment.”

“Oh, God, you just saved a life. _My_ life. I should give you at least something to compensate, you know?” Tyson argued, his eyebrows arched in a funny way.

Abel smiled, and tentatively bent down, his black hair falling on Tyson’s purple strands.

“Then, may I ask for your love?”

“D-Don’t tell me you’re growing flowers in your torso, now, or—”

“Yes, I am in love with you, but I’m a dark angel. Flowers can’t grow inside me, I’m too powerful for that, silly.”

“Ooh, I love powerful men,” said Tyson, attaching himself to Abel’s bicep, “and honestly, Bel, you’re the prettiest creature I’ve ever seen.”

“I thought I was the only creature you’ve ever seen? Humans are considered creatures?”

“I don’t really know, but what I wanted to say was that you’re fucking sexy, mkay? There you go. And you freaking saved me, the damsel in distress, and stayed by my side for the last six months. I guess these flowers were starting to rot anyway, cause I kind of had mixed feelings, to tell you the truth.”

Entirely stunned, Abel took time to process every word his companion had uttered, the implications behind each sentence mentioned giving him too-good-to-be-true ideas.

“Yeah.”

He swallowed, and beamed.

“I could never forget that little spot on that rose, confirming my thought,” he revealed, wanting to cry.

That night, they kissed, first with curiosity, delicacy and intimacy, then with passion, lust and hunger.

The moonlight shone on their bodies throughout the night, and the sun welcomed them the next morning.

Tyson had forgotten about Owen, but would never forget about Abel.

That’s why the both of them lived their life together, swirling in a mess of black feathers, and waltzing to slow songs on Friday nights in parties.

Where no flowers were to be found.


End file.
